


waiting to be transcended

by metaphoricalrhetorical



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - All Media Types, Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
Genre: Alternate Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Arguing, First Kiss, Frobisher being Frobisher, M/M, Oral Sex, Sixsmith being sad, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metaphoricalrhetorical/pseuds/metaphoricalrhetorical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of frobismith drabbles and ficlets, originally posted <a href="http://metaphoricalrhetorical.tumblr.com/tagged/myfanfic">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Anonymous asked: Me again. Corsican stars._

_  
_

In Corsica, Frobisher managed to shame Rufus with his linguistic skills.

Pretty, fluid words slid like a song from his tongue in the same inexplicable way he teased vibrant little character pieces from nothing but a badly tuned Steinway, with his lithe and dancing fingers. Rufus was dumb and uncomfortable by his side, smiling cringingly under the sparkling eyes of Corsican girls, aching from the fact that he didn’t know what his friend was saying to make them twinkle so.

His strange envy was distorted and indecipherable. The girls didn’t appeal to him and he’d come to terms with that a long time ago. He had not come to terms with the fact that Frobisher  _did_ appeal to him. Perhaps he ought to, for he was burning inside for his ignorance of what poetry his friend was bestowing upon them. He had never found Frobisher more fascinating than he did that day. Actually, his fascination had been swelling since the day they had met and, four years later, had reached a point of tremendous surplus. He wasn’t certain what he ought to  _do_ with this intensity of intrigue. All he seemed able to settle himself with was sticking to his friend’s side and watching his never-constant, expressive features with eyes that weren’t doing a fantastic job of hiding their wonder.

Contentment came with being dragged away. He was more than happy to be out of the company of the doting girls. Robert continued to fire snippets of  _français_ at him, taking delight in his lack of comprehension.

They slumped together in the chilled sand, and the sounds of the village at night were distantly vibrant. Far more stars peppered the Corsican skies than the skies at home, and beneath these twinkling embellishments, Rufus watched his friend with stupidly awed eyes. Frobisher’s own eyes fluttered as he lay on his back and watched a gorgeous, navy-black night float above him.

Speaking almost wordlessly, they lay, right arm touching left, breathing softly.

Rufus thought nothing of their hands curling together, but when he turned his head, Robert caught his lips with a seemingly thoughtless impulsiveness, and his breath became caged in his chest for a few rapid, fluttering seconds.

Couldn’t speak. Wanted to, but something told him to shut up and sit tight because as much as his mind screeched at him to end this before he got entangled in the enticing, all-consuming danger that was Robert Frobisher, the rest of him knew that this was it and he wouldn’t feel this again and this was something that he had no choice but to cling to. No choice.

He let go, and the ghost of lips against lips became a kiss; tenuously gorgeous, as languid as the slow-crashing waves that crept up the damp sand of the shore, a transcendental collaboration of Rufus’ fear scattering in the wind and Robert’s self-confidence and ever-present desire creeping into him and eating him alive with ridiculous passion.

He ignored the screeching parts of his mind. Law-abiding, logical Rufus Sixsmith was consumed, and happy to be so. Under the Corsican stars was a deliciously dangerous place to be, but there was never a question as to whether he’d trade the enigma of Robert Frobisher for anything in the world.

When their lips teased apart from one another, Frobisher whispered to him in French with a delectable smirk. Rufus was content to be ignorant. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wrote a drabble for lovely [Ito](http://nomenicide.tumblr.com/).

Frobisher was tracing a fragile line up and down the back of Sixsmith’s hand, thoughtlessly, and Sixsmith was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable, and murmuring ‘don’t, don’t’ at regular intervals and ‘someone’s going to see. They’re going to see’.

Frobisher never, ever shared his fluttering concern. His eyes weren’t even on his own hand, the way Sixsmith’s were. His eyes flitted with the flames of the shore-fire. Sixsmith’s were nervous, and touched people’s faces as they passed, although really it was night-time and no one was looking and the brief glance Frobisher flashed him told him that he was being ridiculous and had absolutely nothing to worry about.

The young composer consolidated this belief/lack of concern by sagging against his friend with ungainly grace. Sixsmith watched the flames fractured and reflected in his eyes and felt him tap a syncopated rhythm on his thigh with slim fingers.

“Remember Gresham’s?”

Took a moment to register that Frobisher had spoken aloud, and then to contemplate on the strangeness of the question. “Yes. Yes, I do.” He did. Gresham’s, he felt, was when Frobisher had been closest to being his.

A soft hum escaped Frobisher. “This reminds me…” he shifted and leaned closer. “The groundsman’s hut. Remember his chimney. This is like it.”

It wasn’t really, thought Sixsmith. Driftwood fires were tinged colder colours and smelled different to the gusts of smoke that had bulged from the chimney of the groundsman’s hut. He didn’t tell Frobisher this, because the man seemed quite lost in his half-smiling little nostalgic haze. He chose to think about Gresham’s, too, because it had been a happier time.

At least he was holding Frobisher. That was like Gresham’s. Even just being in close proximity to his ever more distant lover was reminiscent of Gresham’s. The fact that Frobisher seemed to have no intention of scampering away, until another night, was a little like Gresham’s (although he’d scampered then, too). Simply being close together was like Gresham’s.

Sixsmith smiled. “Yes.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: You are perfection! Just have seen you in frobismith tag and I love your blog! Would you like to make a prompt for me? Robert doesnt hide from Sixsmith, and Sixsmith stops him from killing himself. they return happily together to England and Robert writes another music piece, while living together with Sixsmith!

Dearest Sixsmith,

He is a genius, this fellow. Quite nearly as much of a genius as I am, and he’ll do the work justice, I’m certain of it. He and I sat up last night until the early hours (I’m loathe to leave him to add his own ornamentation, as it’s my work) when he informed me that he could not play sitting but if he continued to stand any longer he’d likely faint. Said to him that we’d best avoid that under any circumstances and told him to be off. Was lost in a haze of acciaccaturas, scalic passage ringing within me when I collapsed into bed. Couldn’t sleep for the life of me. My thoughts were continuous and manic. You’d have fretted had you been here.

I thought of Zedelghem. I wonder if you realise how little I’ve thought of it, in all of ten years. Do you remember how I detested you when we returned to England? Truth be told I had a mind to forget all my former selflessness and put a bullet through my brains in your living room, just to spite you. Sod the carpet. Was still lost in my strange and deadly clarity. Struck by the pointlessness of it all.

Even I was never quite that cruel, however. Not even to you. You’d come all that way. Saw you at the top of the tower and thought, perhaps, I ought to give you the opportunity to at least grow tired of me, Sixsmith. Imagined you would, eventually. Couldn’t resist calling out. Can’t really say I knew what I was thinking. Maybe I wanted a goodbye. I’m not certain.

I’m indebted to you for what followed. Couldn’t shake you off. Couldn’t not listen to you. You know, I never took you seriously, Sixsmith, because you were too sensible. Until that day. You were irrational. You wept quite ridiculously and you spoke madly – we’re both all too aware that can be seduced by passion and madness alone. Was enough to make me falter for a fragment of a second and that was enough for you to sweep me away from Belgium, and Ayrs’ Luger. Not quite away from my deathwish, but you did that in time, too.

I’m digressing to something, Sixsmith, I don’t know what. I apologise.

I am trying to thank you. Without you, I’d have topped myself and I’d never have written the concerto and, honestly, in my wildest dreams I never believed I would achieve something this utterly monumental. I’ve redefined a genre and I’ve made something of myself, and all my gratitude, dearest Sixsmith, is to you. You needn’t have come all the way to Belgium to wrench me back to England and set me right, but you did.

Now I find myself in Paris with the finest young virtuoso in the world, putting the finishing touches to a violin concerto of the highest calibre, ready to single-handedly the western classical tradition into the 20th century.

Yes, this is a formal thank you and no, you won’t get another. It’s genuine. All my gratitude, I mean. Where I am now, ten years on, is something I owe to you.

Thank you, Sixsmith.

Sincerely, R.F.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [krispyskreme](http://krispyskreme.tumblr.com/) asked: Frobisher and Sixsmith go out on a date somewhere, and Sixsmith gets really anxious before finally exploding at Frobisher, who doesn't understand what the big deal is. :D

Frobisher didn’t even look at him.

It would’ve been better if he’d been looking now and then, the way Rufus’ own eyes grazed so continuously against the smaller man. That, of course, was pretty symbolic of how they operated as a sort-of couple; the whole damn thing was often one-sided and usually something about it was horribly unfair. Rufus’s philosophy was, of course, that it was /worth it/, but Frobisher in large doses left his nerves ragged, and he acted like smoke.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t acknowledge him, of course, but it was the little acknowledgements, which came in the form of hatefully surreptitious little touches that weren’t quite surreptitious enough, and that made the situation even more gut-clenchingly awful. Rufus couldn’t shove away the sickness that gushed in his stomach at every touch. He couldn’t make his gaze stop flickering with terror at the thought that every provocative little touch might be seen, and that that thought seemed to entail the prospect of everything precious being yanked down around the two of them. And Frobisher, blithe and volatile and not looking in the right direction, did not care. No heed was paid by the young composer to the fact that, as he slipped his hand into Rufus’s pocket, he was risking something awful.

How did he live like this? It was hateful. Rufus’ heart pounded, and he kept his gaze dancing tremulously between the untroubled face of his lover and passersby, screaming without a word. Frobisher had his eyes on the expanse of water in front of them, and was smirking at the punters. He shifted. Hand on thigh, and now they were shoulder-to-shoulder. Rufus stiffly took his weight and wondered if they looked like friends or if they looked like they ought to be arrested.

“Robert…” Words slunk from him as he finally suffered enough fear to protest.

Frobisher did not reply. His head dropped to Rufus’ shoulder in a way which was simultaneously uncaring and tender.

It was bright daylight. The park was crowded. Rufus began to wonder if this whole affair was simply fun for Frobisher – perhaps the whole idea had not been to spend time together. Maybe Robert just liked the risk of it all. Who knew? Rufus prided himself on knowing the inside of Robert Frobisher’s mind better than any other, but even to him, there were parts of it that were too obscure and indecipherable to even begin to fathom.

The smaller man was shifting against him, curling far too intimately, and Rufus’ breathing was quick and his heart frenetic. It would have been almost acceptable if Frobisher had looked at him. This felt like he could be any poor soul who had the misfortune of falling in love with the gorgeous and capricious composer. He supposed that’s exactly what he was, really, but the confirmation that he might be just the same as all the others was cutting.

“Robert.” Someone was looking. Oh lord, someone was looking straight at them and Rufus audibly breathed in as his stomach dropped and his entire body tensed as though he’d been electrocuted.

He stood frantically. Robert sprawled suddenly on the grass, before scrambling to his knees to look up indignantly. “I was half-asleep!”

Rufus shook his head, near tears with fear and irritation. “You can’t just – I mean – this is – we’re in public!”

Frobisher looked quite unimpressed as he stood, dusting himself off idly. “You didn’t say anything.

“You know, Robert – you know we can’t just – that I don’t like –“

“Alright, alright. You’ve made your point.” Frobisher stepped forwards, and Rufus tensed with utter terror, fearing that he might try to kiss him. He didn’t; instead, he lifted Rufus’ wrist and checked his watch. “I ought to go.”

Of course. He wasn’t going to linger whilst Rufus was in a state of irritation. He’d return when he was missed enough to be forgiven. Of course.

“Fine.”

“Alright.”

“I’ll see you later.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [krispyskreme](http://krispyskreme.tumblr.com/) asked: Prior to Zedelgheim, Frobisher has to attend some concert and he brings Sixsmith along for the heck of it, and they have to dress up and maybe there's some sort of afterparty/reception and sixsmith is completely lost with all the musical terms and stuff :D

It was an occupational hazard of attaching himself to Robert Frobisher that Rufus was required to attend these kinds of events. He didn’t mind, not really; he liked the music well enough, and spending time with Robert was never a bad thing. It just made him feel a little ignorant. He thought the girl onstage playing (what he did recognise to be Prokofiev) was marvellous, but he couldn’t help flicking his eyes to Frobisher now and then to check that his own response was the right one. It was ridiculous, of course. He wasn’t a composer. He might as well just sit back and enjoy the lovely music, instead of noting with some concern that Frobisher’s brow was furrowed and his face a little severe.

Giving up, Rufus sank in his chair a little. He was obvious wrong. The entire thing must have been dreadful. The girl was finishing with a flourish, and he noticed that she looked young; their own age, perhaps. He wondered if the gravity in Robert’s eyes was borne of jealousy, but then remembered that Robert didn’t want to be a concert pianist, he wanted to be a composer, and he wouldn’t be happy playing someone else’s music anyway. Rufus was led to wonder if the way he looked at her was something that was not jealousy but, in fact, something more amicable and – yes – there it was. Rufus Sixsmith’s heart took a brief and familiar little jolt. Frobisher was now applauding quite vigorously.

“Hold on,” his hand took Rufus’ arm and prevented him from standing too quickly. “I’m going to get us into the after party.”

The tiniest of sighs escaped unhappily from deep within Rufus. “Alright.” Robert was off, darting, disappearing, and Rufus lingered, ill at ease, until he was yanked away once more and found himself tugged by a keen Frobisher up gold and ornate opera-house stairs to a bar that he had not even been aware of the existence of. Discomfort set his nerves on edge, and he trailed behind Frobisher, who was mingling animatedly.

It took ten minutes, and there she was. Somehow, with his lithe and supple body and charm, Robert had wormed his way through what appeared to be a rather elite group of people to the pianist herself. Her name was Eileen Joyce and she was just twenty.

“Outstanding,” Robert was assuring her, with a sparkling smile that Rufus had rarely found himself able to tease from the young man. “Transcendental. Never heard the like.”

“Thank you.” She was pleased. This was her professional debut, and she was dazzled by the praises.

“Prokofiev, eh? For your debut I’d have picked Liszt. Chopin, even. For the sake of virtuosity…”

“I didn’t get to pick, it wasn’t my show!” Her laugh sparkled and Rufus shrank a little more, nabbing a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter, if only to have something to busy his hands with. “I’d have liked to do Chopin.”

“And you’d have played…the ballade?”

“Which ballade?”

“Number one. Of course. It’s Frobisher, by the way. Robert.”

“Of course. Please to meet you.”

“Play it next time.” Robert was smiling, and it seemed he’d forgotten all about his lingering lover. “It’s gorgeous. The second subject’s almost like an aria, I think…”

“…yes. Bel canto.”

“I’d choose Chopin over Schumann.”

“Would you? Are you a showman, Mr. Frobisher?”

“Not for the virtuosity, for the harmony. Climax ends up being in F sharp minor. From G minor. Genius. Define romantic harmony.”

“But it’s unprogrammatic. Schumann tells a story.”

“And what’s wrong with pure music? The entire structure of the ballade’s based on thematic transformation…it can be a story if you want it to be.”

Even Rufus, who understood nothing of the word-dance the two were engaged in, was a little breathtaken by the loveliness of Robert’s diction. Subsequent to this, however, came the unhappy realisation that he was floundering in the words of both parties and had no hope of even attempting to enter the conversation without looking like an idiot. This was hopeless. It was a horrible feeling. He was lost. Daringly, he even tried brushing against Frobisher, which under normal circumstances he might have been fearful of doing in public. No joy.

“…but I don’t know. Schumann’s character pieces are lovely…”

“I’m going to defend the ballade, you know I am. That coda…presto con fuoco, the scalic passage…you can’t beat it.”

“Are we forgetting Liszt, Mr. Frobisher? Rachmaninov? You seem an advocator of the romantic pianists…”

“Of course I am. But Chopin shaped the Romantic piano tradition, he…”

“…but Liszt’s sonata…”

“It’s not even a proper sonata…”

“Robert.” Rufus cut in without his usual tentativeness. He felt utterly hopeless and, of course, he couldn’t blame Robert. He liked being where Robert wanted to be because Robert was seldom this happy. How could he protest? “I’m going for some fresh air.”

Frobisher barely looked at him. “Enjoy yourself.”

“I’ll see you.” He made his way out to the balcony, and noted that Frobisher’s eyes did not follow him. No matter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [nomenicide](http://nomenicide.tumblr.com/) asked: Sixsmith goes to Church after a long time and drops some money into the fountain and prays Frobisher doesn't bring back syphilis.

Being in a church provided Rufus with the oddest of sensations. It felt almost wrong, and it was a complete fluke that he’d walked past the chapel and been drawn in, moth-like, to multicoloured sunlight dusting against the pews.

He wasn’t religious, as such. His family were relatively relaxed Presbyterians, unlike Frobisher’s, who were steadfast Catholics. This church was neither Catholic nor Presbyterian; plain old Church of England. This venture had little to do with spirituality, anyway.; it was just beautiful.

Rufus had adopted a custom of finding beautiful places in which to read Frobisher’s letters. It was a recent habit; he’d devoured the first few letters on the spot, ravenous for some taste of his absent lover and near-trembling with desperation to have some confirmation that the composer had not slipped into a more dangerous degree of instability, or gone mad, or perished altogether. After about five of these letters, however, he’d discovered that reading about Frobisher’s adventures was often a draining experience. The least he could do to manage his own emotional welfare during these regular ordeals was to take his time with them, and to ensure that his physical situation, at the very least, was somewhat pleasant. He’d been on his way to the river this time, but perhaps the church was a better choice. It was October, and although the sun remained shining coolly, the briskness of the breeze would have done nothing to calm his relentless inner turmoil. Here was a little more peaceful.

He read only the first part of the letter before a degree of nauseated unhappiness gripped him. Yes, he smiled at the snippet of Robert’s elation that he tasted in his description of a ‘sextet for overlapping soloists’. The thought of the young man sitting there beavering away at his very own work ought to have left Sixsmith in good spirits for the rest of the day, were it not for the fact that this segment of Frobisher’s adventures opened with something marginally more foreboding; ‘Wouldn’t wish Syphilis on my worst enemies’. 

Rufus recalled in addition to this a previous letter, and Robert’s transcription of his Jocasta’s words. ‘My husband loves you.’

Had it been anyone but Frobisher, he needn’t have worried. Robert’s track record, however, was an awful one. Beyond awful. He’d never done as Rufus did; teetered precariously on the edge of what was sensible – he was the volatile, all-or-nothing type who did not plan and when he thought, thought of all the wrong things.

Rufus was stuffing the letter away to finish later, and suffered a substantial degree of nausea. He could just see it. He could just see Frobisher slipping into bed with Ayrs as he had done with Jocasta and then crawling home like a phantom; gaunt, wasting. The syphilitic decays in increments, like fruit rotting in orchard verges. He wasn’t even going to think about the implications on their own relationship.

Perhaps it was fortuitous that he’d chosen to be afflicted by this thought in the midst of a holy place. He had not prayed in five years, at least, nor been in any church, Presbyterian or otherwise - he wasn’t even certain he believed in a god anymore - but the fragment of Robert’s letter that he’d gotten through was enough to make him consider bowing his head.

Once he did so, however, he had no idea how to begin his prayer, except to beg, a little half-heartedly, that Robert did not bring home syphilis. He gave up swiftly, feeling idiotic and pointless and well-aware that not even the hand of God could stop Robert doing exactly what he wanted to do.

Rufus got to his feet, and his depart was slow. He intended on reading the remainder of Robert’s letter once he got home, and somehow was keen to prolong the actual act of going home in the hope that, perhaps, it might change in tone in the space of time it took him to walk the short distance.

The wind had not settled, but there was sun enough. The light smashed itself into fragmentation against a glistening fountain in the church courtyard. It caught Rufus’ eye, and he paused, before approaching it.

He dug in his pocket for a coin. Worth a try.

Somehow, it felt less idiotic to lean over the water and murmur ‘Please don’t let him’ than to pray. He lingered, and wished with impassioned vigour. Coming to church, he decided, only made things worse. He’d stick to the park in future.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [revolucionprusiana](http://revolucionprusiana.tumblr.com/) asked you: I absolutelly LOVE how you handle Sixsmith’s POV. Could you writte about their first time or the last night in Cambridge? nsfw or not, it’s okay.

Rufus had intended the night to end like this from its very beginning, if only because he could feel Robert turning to smoke in his hands, and the only thing he could reallydo was to make them as close together as he could possibly manage before it was too late.

The young composer’s impending withdrawal from his life was agonisingly imminent. He wasn’t certain how he knew; Robert went astray now and then, and Rufus always knew. Generally, the composer would later return and be tattered from somekind of unimaginable experience, in more pieces than when he departed, and with sparkling eyes that made Rufus feel a little sick, because he had no way of telling why, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask. He existed to pick up pieces of Robert when the young man shattered himself. Asking questions was all very well, but receiving the raw and excruciating answers he’d teased out previously was by and large less preferable to having no answers at all.

He’d felt it when he’d woken up, with little forewarning, but a striking amount of certainty. It had been inevitable for some time, anyway; there was more than one collector of debt in pursuit of Robert. It was impractical for him to stay whilst his name remained muck.

This was why Rufus had been the one to take the situation into his own hands, and Rufus had been the one to proposition Robert, and he had led them back to bed, certain, for once, that he wasn’t going to lose his lover to the piano. Not tonight.

Robert’s willingness was, perhaps, out of pity. Served only to prove that yes, he was leaving, and perhaps he was sorry for Sixsmith’s sake. He undressed with something like a grin, and Rufus worried that his nude form had such fragility to it. He might shatter. It was for this reason that when he moved, he shifted himself over the young composer instead of allowing him to crawl onto his hips. He kissed him with assertion. Their sexual exploits were varied, most nights, but standard procedure was that Robert took the reigns to a degree; Robert asked to be fucked, or Robert straddled him and rode him to a point of gorgeous exhaustion. Tonight, however, Rufus manoeuvred himself over his lover, and trapped him with fond kisses, shifting between wiry limbs, and soon was making love to him with predictable and sincere tenderness.

He was rhythmic and he talked; murmured nonsense to a perspiring, arching Frobisher. Robert pressed his entire form upwards almost obediently, as though he were being paid, and thus Sixsmith pushed harder, at an easy pace, found an angle, and drew a moan. A legitimate moan, not a ‘well done Sixsmith’ moan. He seemed to curve inwards and come fractionally more undone with each thrust and he made almost as much noise as Rufus this was not how things happened. Rufus, in general, was the one who became overwhelmed and lost in panting heated breaths and utterly engulfed in Frobisher, but tonight he felt as though he were guiding them both, almost adeptly, to a shattering finish. He was quite sure that Robert had made a conscious decision to allow this to happen, but as far as Rufus was concerned that did not make it any less significant and wonderful.

Tender murmurs of endearment tumbled from him, and Frobisher didn’t try to kiss them away, as he might have done another night. Noise came from him, too; fragmented moans and juddering gasps, all of which felt, to Sixsmith, exactly like responses to his low confessions of adoration.

Beneath both their bodies, Rufus’ hand shifted, and sought out a shooting-star blemish, on which his thumb settled to caress ceaselessly.

Robert came quietly, contrasting with how noisily he’d borne the rest of the occasion. He shuddered, however, and his face, for the tiniest of earth-shattering moments, seemed angelic. He subsequently pressed his forehead to Rufus’ shoulder and snaked sweaty arms around his neck as the scientist continued, bringing himself to a louder and probably less beautiful finish. Both gave an outwards breath.

They slumped against one another, and Rufus felt his heart begin to attempt to dampen the frenzy it had worked itself into as he sprawled off his lover. He could, at that moment, have thought of the fact that Robert would be gone before midday. However, Frobisher spoke a soft instruction (‘turn over) and he gave no thought to it, content to feel his friend’s lithe, hot form curl against his back and drift into a dazed and happy sleep.

Where Frobisher was concerned, to think about the possibilities of tomorrow was quite lethal.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked you: Sixsmith has trouble conciliating his religious upbringing with his science and gay. Frobisher takes him to confession and gives him a blowjob.

Doubt was an affliction which had haunted Rufus Sixsmith for the majority of his life. Of course, it was part and parcel of loving Frobisher, but to be quite honest doubt was one of the only one of his more grievous problems for which he could not hold the composer in some way accountable (although he resented none of the problems which were Robert’s fault). Doubt had riddled most aspects of his existence since always – it was not an exclusively Frobisheral problem.

Today it was a little more sickening than usual, however. He’d been officially away from home for a year, now (although between Gresham’s and Frobisher he had spent little time there before Cambridge anyway), but was of course required to return home for at least a week or two during the summer.

This was difficult because it was two weeks away from Frobisher who was likely utilising his time by doing various things of a somewhat dangerous nature, which was worrying. It was also difficult because Rufus Sixsmith was older and wiser and more introspective than he had ever been, and as returning home was the equivalent of being plunged into icy water that one had only just managed to escape and very nearly forgotten about. It was hateful.

Well. That was, perhaps, an overstatement. His reunion with his family was a warm one. The consolation, even, that was provided by being in his own bed, was agreeable, although he missed Robert sorely. Come Sunday morning, however, discomfort swirled hatefully within him. Church was no longer a place he frequented - It hadn’t been a conscious decision to stop going, and it wasn’t until he was awkwardly not-praying in the pews once more that he realised there had been reasons.

Regardless, on returning back to Cambridge, he inevitably felt like a failure. He hadn’t given much thought to his gradual erosion of any religious tendencies. He thought about it now, however, as he unpacked his case in his quarters in Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, and was disheartened. He really hadn’t thought about the fact that so many parts of his life were incompatible and the things that he had discovered for himself to be right, through experience or instinct or fact or feeling, (like Darwin’s Origin of Species, like Frobisher) conflicted quite viciously with the things he had been taught were right.

He was considering this, unhappily, when Frobisher popped ridiculously through his open window. He was startled enough, for a moment, to forget his unhappiness, and stare. “Robert…?”

“Don’t bother telling me I ought to have knocked, I’d have had to sneak past Laverty and he’s out for blood since that bet. Don’t whine.”

“I missed you too.” Rufus’ smile was genuine but half-hearted, and Frobisher gave him a grin and then a look.

“You look like someone died. Who was it?”

“Nobody, don’t be morbid…”

“What is it?” Frobisher looked more puzzled than concerned, really, but the sentiment was there, and thus, Sixsmith informed his good friend of the cause of his unhappiness, quite briefly. A large part of him prickled with anxiety that he’d be mocked, and the curve of Robert’s eyebrows told him he was right to be concerned. No comment was made, however. He received a brief kiss to the cheek that seemed a little condescending, and his arm was tugged that he might stand, which he did unquestioningly.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“I did miss you.” Frobisher kissed him and the elation that, for a brief moment, replaced his misery, was astounding. “It’s been dull. Come on.”  
Rufus allowed himself be led, inspecting Frobisher as they walked. He seemed relatively intact. Purposeful, too, and Rufus couldn’t decipher why that might be until they reached the church and his eyes widened a little. “I’m…not sure if converting to Catholicism is the answer…”

“A little confession does anyone good. Come on.”

Bewilderment dominated Rufus’ expression as he was practically manhandled into the tiny confession booth. Robert followed him in, which was uncomfortable. “Robert…”

“Shh…” Robert was dropping to his knees, and Sixsmith realised he ought to have known where this was going all along. He began to panic, seeing the silhouette of the priest and realising what a dreadful plan this was. He made an attempt to push Frobisher away.

“Robert…” His protest was spoken in a breath.

The boy was unfastening his friend’s trousers unconcernedly, although his reply was spoken in the same undertone. “Make the sign of the cross, out loud.”

This felt wrong. “In…in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” Rufus swallowed. “Amen.” The second syllable of ‘amen’ was juddering and lilted involuntarily upwards, because Frobisher’s lips were working their way tenderly down the side of his cock, teasing him into arousal.

The priest was blessing him. Scripture was being recited. This was awful. Frobisher took him into his mouth, briefly, before leaning back once more and glancing up. “Bless me, father…” he prompted, and then resumed his task.

“Bless me father for…for I have sinned.” His knowledge of the procedures of a confessional were limited, and his brain was quite befuddled by Frobisher’s tongue running up the underside of his cock. “It’s been…um…a while since my last confession.”

Frobisher was quite engrossed, which left Sixsmith stranded in his hazy familiarity with the customs of Catholicism as the priest blessed him.

Here, he knew, was the point where he was supposed to actually confess things, but honestly he really didn’t want to say the word sodomy out loud to a priest, particularly now. Frobisher was bobbing his head adeptly and Sixsmith was drawing closer to something that he really, really didn’t want to happen in a confession box, but instinct left him tilting his hips upwards almost desperately and threading his fingers into Robert’s hair, to which the young man responded with vigour.

“I…um…have lost some faith. In…the lord. And-” he bit off a gasp and tried to think about dead bodies on operating tables etc. to no avail. “-and stuff.”

“That is not a mortal sin.”

At this point, coherency became difficult. There was a long, drawn-out moment in which no words were spoken as Sixsmith’s breath quickened. He swore as Frobisher completed his task with some skill, and there was a taut silence emanated from the still form of the priest.

Frobisher was deftly fastening his trousers for him. “Alright, let’s go, I’m sure a couple of Hail Marys’ll fix you up.” Rufus was yanked into a dash, bewildered and befuddled by the haze provided by his post-orgasmic state of mind.

Outside air came as a jolt to ragged nerves, and Rufus’ first reaction was to be quite furious. At the grin he received from Frobisher, however, he felt this linger for only a fragment of a second before he was engulfed by the pleasure (and utter relief) that came of seeing his friend again (intact).

“Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among…”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [krispyskreme](http://krispyskreme.tumblr.com/) asked: please continue the lost-Sixsmith-at-the-concert prompt ;A; maybe he goes to the balcony and meets someone else who is equally lost in this world of music, and they talk about the stars together? and then cue jealous Frobisher and possibly a public fight? :'D

Robert did not come after him. This was, of course, utterly expected, but stung heartily, and thus the night left Rufus miserable and housing an internal battle between resentfulness and the impulse to facilitate Robert’s happiness. He could see that Robert was happy – he was wittering away to the flattered young pianist with gorgeous fervour, glowing – and of course, Sixsmith couldn’t begrudge him that. Not when he looked so bright. He couldn’t.

Well, perhaps he could. It stuck at Rufus’ heart that he couldn’t make Robert light up so stunningly, when he was the one who knew the young composer best and was responsible for him and, dare he say it, deserved to?

He detested himself as soon as those thoughts crept into his mind. That was hateful. It was wrong to begrudge Robert such joy, even if Rufus felt ignored, uncomfortable. Wrong.

Rufus breathed a sigh and tried to calm his heart. He was jealous, of course, and the knowledge of this only made him more infuriated with himself. He had no right to be jealous – Robert did not pretend that Rufus was his only lover, and Rufus accepted this because he had to. Having only a fragment of Robert’s time was better than having an absence of Robert. Besides, he found comfort in the knowledge that he knew the young Frobisher’s mind better than anyone, which was even a little superior to knowing his body (which he also knew quite well, really).

He was feeling a little more comfortable in this knowledge when he was approached by a young man with a concerned expression and two glasses of champagne.

“I have to say, I’ve some cause to be worried about you, looking down like that. You aren’t thinking of…? Are you? Jolly bad idea.”

Sixsmith looked up incomprehensively for several seconds, and then back to the patch of ground he had been staring at from his balcony spot, floors and floors below. Then he smiled. “No. Goodness, no.”

The young man, who was dark-haired and well-postured, grinned back. “Glad to hear it. I brought you this, anyway, in case you needed to drown your sorrows.” Champagne was placed into Rufus’ hand without his consent, but he wasn’t complaining. The man continued. “What were you looking at? You looked a bit sad. Contemplative? Oh, lord, you’re not one of these musicians, are you?”

Rufus laughed, and shook his head, and felt a little more at ease. “No. No, I’m not. Aren’t you?”

“Lord, no! I’m…well…” the man shook his head. “To be quite honest, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I came for the show – thought it was jolly good, I have to say – and got here by a sheer fluke. Madness. Madness!”

“I’m here with a friend. A musical friend.”

“Of course, of course. Dragged along, I suppose.”

“No, not at all.” Sixsmith paused. He considered. “A little. But honestly, it’s wonderful…wonderful.”

“That’s why you’re out here.” The man grinned.

“I…”

“Me too. Bit out of my depth, I think.”

“I empathise.” It was Rufus’ turn to smile.

“My name’s Edmund, by the way. Edmund Laurence.”

“Pleased to meet you. Rufus Sixsmith.”

“Gracious, really?” Edmund’s face was bright and animated and Rufus quite liked it. “I’ve heard of you! You’re a Caius man!”

Perplexed, Rufus nodded. “Yes. I don’t recall…are you from Cambridge yourself?”

Edmund seemed to grow sheepish. “Actually, I’m just here visiting. I’m an Oxford man. A physicist, but a rival, I’m afraid.”

“Begone, fiend,” Sixsmith murmured, good-naturedly, and wished he could feel this at ease all the time. It was possibly the champagne, or Edmund’s light, open features, or being engulfed in cool night air, but he felt quite easy. Even with a man of Oxford University. 

Said man of Oxford was gazing up at the sky. “Lovely night.”

“Mm.” Rufus nodded in agreement. Frobisher, finally, was at the back of his mind. It was a lovely night. He could have a good time out here, whilst Robert enjoyed himself inside. No bother.

“Orion’s out,” noted Edmund, almost amorously. Rufus looked at him to see if he were trying to catch his eyes, but he wasn’t; his gaze was quite fixed above him at a crisp sky in which Orion did indeed hang.

Sixsmith was about to comment, but the silence was instead punctuated by a familiar voice and he was stabbed by immediate and sickening guilt when he realised that he was not, in fact, altogether pleased to be reunited with Frobisher.

“Where in god’s name have you been, Sixsmith? “ The manner in which the young composer shouldered past Edmund suggested that he was ignoring the Oxford graduate’s existence. He put a hand on Sixsmith and looked at him stabbingly. “I was looking for you.” The irony that he chose now to press up worryingly close was not lost on Rufus.

“You were busy. I came outside and talked to Edmund.” Edmund was murmuring a disconcerted farewell and leaving the two of them alone. Robert’s lips were tilting into a smirk but Rufus was suddenly filled with a resolve not to cave in to his ridiculous, lovely charm. He’d been ill-treated and he was going to bloody well act like it. “Don’t. Don’t look like that. That wasn’t…wasn’t nice. I was having a conversation.”

“I heard. The stars. Lovely.”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“I was having a good time and I was letting you have a good time and – and there’s no need to be rude.” Sixsmith’s voice had raised somewhat, and Frobisher looked quite surprised. Eyes were on them already, and for once this was of little consequence. Rufus was too irritated.

“Is that what this is, Rufus? It is. It’s a ploy to make me jealous.”

“I was having a conversation. You…must you be so conceited?” Despite his infuriating little smirk, it seemed that Robert really was annoyed. He was turning away, and Sixsmith swallowed quickly, regretting his outburst almost immediately. “Robert…”

“You might as well be going. I’m not quite done talking to Miss Joyce.”

“Of course.” The stiffness was tangible. Rufus was stupidly, furiously resigned. Robert would enjoy himself. He probably would not return until the following morning or a morning after that, but he would enjoy himself a great deal.

“I’ll see you at home.”

“Good night.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [revolucionprusiana](http://revolucionprusiana.tumblr.com/) Asked: Angst? Rufus reading Rob's suicide note after police picked up the body

Even if his mind had been present and not frozen in the bathroom, congested with hateful, excruciating stills of the most awful thing he had ever/would ever/could ever witness, Rufus would have needed several tries to succeed in scraping anything from the pages in his Frobisher-stained hands into his ragged-edged, shaking, denying mind.

This was for several reasons. Firstly, he could not keep the pages still – they shook incessantly in his clutch and, afflicted by strange delirium, Rufus imagined them fluttering away, leaf-like, and he clutched tighter still, aghast at the thought that his last piece of Robert might escape in a manner which would seem heat-wrenchingly, sickeningly symbolic.

Secondly, when he touched his quaking forefinger to the bittersweet Frobisherness of the spidery letters, the words smeared in retort to the contact of the blood of their author, blood which didn’t seem likely to wash off was probably going to be embedded forever in Rufus’ skin, he thought almost idly. This prospect did not bother him.

It was useless. He couldn’t make his brain think about the words, anyway – he was hindered quite entirely by his own shattered mind’s insistent, point-blank refusal to process anything but a horrific, heart-shreddingly awful image of Robert’s lifeless face. It was paralysing him. A year later he would look back on this day and the months that followed and know that what had ensued from that day onwards had been a period of grief-stricken and agonised denial and careful, insistent isolation from everything that was not an imaginary Frobisher. Actually, that first stage of grief never did really leave him, but those were the months in which it was prominent and agonising and barely possible to live through without simply ignoring the lack of Robert. Slotting his own vibrant, imaginary Robert into the ragged, bleeding hole.

He was painfully aware, however, that this letter was his last scrap of Frobisher. He ought to read it. Out of duty. Love. All those sorts of things.

A hand was on him. Thickly-accented English sank rudely into his weighted, painful thoughts. “Sir, if you could…”

“Was he a close friend?”

“Sir, we’d like…”

“It would be very helpful if you could…”

Rufus stood. “Excuse me, please.”

“Of course.”

His legs were numb and did not carry him with much dependability. He couldn’t see, and stumbled his way to the back of the building.

Fear. Terror – that was the other thing that prevented him from reading it. The obvious implication existed that reading Robert Frobisher’s suicide note meant that Robert Frobisher had committed suicide and was gone and would never look at Sixsmith again or be beautiful or hum to himself or weep. Rufus did not want this to be an acceptance or a goodbye or a bloodyhalf-finished love affair, which it had always been going to be, and which was hatefully, sickeningly fitting.

Legs giving up, the wrecked scientist let himself scrape down a ragged wall, choking wetly on his own hurt again. The letter was half-crushed and blood-stained and, suddenly, frighteningly legible.

His hand still shook as he flattened the pages out, but even blurred and trembling and blood-stained, they insisted, just as Frobisher had, to be given all due attention.

_Sixsmith,_

Rufus shuddered. Gagged.

_Shot myself through the roof of my mouth at 5 A.M. this morning with V.A.’s Luger._


End file.
